Arthur in the Room
by FMAvatard
Summary: Two people share an apartment. One is cold to the other. M for language, brief violence, and mild sexuality.


AN: Heads up. This particular story has a scene that may be triggering in terms of hate/violence. You have been warned, please do not be offended.

* * *

His hands are always so warm.

I take Alfred's hand every night when we go to bed. He'll mumble something about the cold and pull our hands closer to his body, but I just smile. It seems oddly fitting; he's a human furnace whereas I'm almost always chilled to the bone. It's a good balance, I like to think.

I tell him I love him every morning when he goes to work, but he's always in such a rush, he never says it back. It's not that severe of an issue; his mouth is normally stuffed with food, a piece of toast or a Pop-Tart, so it'd be rather boorish to respond. Oh, I wish I could cook...I'd make him wonderful things, a real breakfast. None of that processed American rubbish. He could sit down to eggy bread, poached eggs, a fresh glass of juice or milk, and then maybe a few strawberries on the side. I tried making him coffee once...he loves his coffee. All he did was complain about the machine being broken after I used it, how it only smokes and sputters now. Oh well. He gets it from the Starbucks across the street now.

Alfred works in a small shop that sells flowers. He's the breadwinner of the house, or apartment, rather. He'll get us a house someday. A nice, large house, with a yard and a fence and space to move...our own home. It'll be incredible.

While he works with daisies and types spreadsheets for petunia orders and plucks petals, I stay home and clean. Alfred is so disorganized, I swear...his papers are everywhere, his clothes, it's ridiculous, really. The documents go on his desk, neat and stacked, and every piece of clothing I find goes in the hamper. If I have time, I'll make the bed, even if it'll just get undone and disheveled later. That's all there really is to do...such a small home we have, but it's not nonetheless. I'd be happy living here forever if it meant living with Alfred.

The hours pass as I read a book. Well, I didn't really read it...it's a photo album. Alfred keeps a photo album by the couch. I can't help it if he was so cute when he was a child. Always so happy, always smiling. I wish that I'd grown up with him, but we've been living together for awhile now. I suppose that's a plus.

The sound of the door opening prompts me to set the album down immediately, standing up off the sofa. I was sitting in his spot, I wouldn't want to alarm him. Alfred looks so tired...it is seven o' clock. His work schedule just seems to get later and later, all those orders. He looks my way and sighs, and I see that he's brought dinner home, Chinese takeout. I'm not that hungry, so I just sit down at the table and wait. I smile as he joins me, sitting across and beginning his meal. He didn't get me anything, as usual, but I don't mind.

He gets up and moves to the sofa, so that means I will too. The television is turned on, it's bright screen flickering to life with some reality programme. We sit on separate ends of the sofa, but sometimes, I can't help myself. I'll scoot over, closer to him, until I can lean on his shoulder. He'll get up immediately, and I'll fall to the cushion rather unceremoniously. It's quite alright. He always returns, but with a fresh change of clothes, thick and warm, just how I like. I wonder if he noticed how clean the house is? Probably not.

We'll watch the telly until ten or so. Alfred will make a few phone calls, calling his mother to talk about life, his brother to complain about the apartment, all the creaks and leaks and whatnot. I ignore all the faults; with Alfred, this place feels like heaven.

He yawns, so I know it's time. Alfred and I will retreat to the bedroom; he's so adorable when he's exhausted. He'll take his glasses off and run his eyes, his feet will shuffle quietly against the carpet. He strips down to his boxers and he'll just leap into the bed, wrinkling the comforter that I had painstakingly made to where there were no creases. I knew that would happen, so I don't mind. Within seconds he's under. I crawl beside him, keeping my distance. He probably wouldn't like it if I got too close...I close my eyes, whispering my love for him gently.

"I love you."

"Mm..."

I smile, closing my eyes. Any acknowledgment is good, when it think about it.

A few hours pass, and I hear him stir. My eyes open and I see how he looks distressed. His brows are furrowed, and his toes at curling in and out, his body tossing and turning. Further investigation reveals just how distressed he is, the comforter tented near his waist. I know this is a problem I can solve, so I carefully pull the covers back, and I touch him lightly through his boxers. He shivers and moans softly, his hips twitching. I smile as I continue palming him and kissing at his stomach. Soon I lower his boxers and kiss the head of his cock. Alfred's back will arch just slightly, and he'll shiver again. My hands take his hips and I hold him steady, sheathing his length slowly with my lips. I relish the sounds he makes, those moans, the shivers, how I can feel him throbbing, that pulse.

He's so warm.

I continue sucking him off, indulging his wet dream. I feel aroused, but I know I'll just have to grin and bear it, lest I risk waking him This happens more often than I'd like to admit...he finishes. The job is done. I smile softly, placing Alfred's boxers where they belonged, as well as the covers, laying back beside him. He looks so at peace, if not still shivering. There's a smile on his face, and...his eyes are opening. He's looking right at me through bleary eyes. I stare back at him for what seems like an eternity before he falls back asleep. I sigh quietly. Good.

I feel him shift closer to me as he sleeps, his body radiating with the heat. I dare the chance of getting close to him...and he doesn't stir. I grin to myself, wrapping an arm around him tightly.

I love him.

I'll go anywhere with him.

. . . . .

_Three Months Earlier_

_. . . . ._

"So this is it? You think it'll be okay?"

"Yeah, man, why wouldn't it be?"

"...you couldn't have found a better neighborhood?"

"Don't be like that. You know my budget. I already know it's kind of a shit-hole, but eh. It's only a place to stay until I make enough money for a better one."

Alfred shakes his head, setting down his bags and examining the empty apartment. The place really was a shit-hole...cracks in the ceiling, the scent of mildew in the air. He turned to the blonde behind him with a sigh.

"You're not gonna tell Mom how bad it is, are you?"

"Nah, Al, don't worry about it. Just...buy some good locks and get the hell out of here as soon as possible."

Matthew sighs, looking around the room. He wasn't sure if he wanted to look at the bathroom. At least there was a closet. Alfred was probably going to have it jam-packed with his crap later. He opens it, wondering if it would be wiser to sleep in there than in the actual bedroom. Just before he shut the door, something catches his eyes and he double-takes. There was a shelf up above, and...

"...hey, Al, check it out."

The new apartment-owner turns from the rusty kitchen to his brother, moving closer. Matthew was holding a thick book...or no, it wasn't a book. It was a photo album.

"Let me see that. Was that in the closet?"

Alfred takes it gently in his hands, flipping it open. Only the first page has a photo...for such a massive book, it seems rather unusual. It's faded, but visible; a man, a rather young one. Blonde. Green eyes like Alfred had never seen. Big eyebrows. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't quite frowning either...he looked neutral. Not expressionless...sad? Disappointed? The blonde adjusts his glasses and removes the photo from its casing. Was this someone who used to live here?

"Uh...okay then...well, I kinda needed a new photo album. Sorry for the guy who left it here."

Matthew watches as his brother places the photo in a nearby drawer, dusts off the now empty album and places it on the kitchen counter.

"I think I got it from here. Thanks, man."

"Gimme a call when you're settled, okay Al?"

"Gotcha."

. . . . .

_Fifty Years Earlier_

_. . . . ._

He was coughing up blood.

The fact he'd been able to run away after getting kicked in the ribs had been a miracle. So many times, each one worse than before. They'd jumped out of nowhere on his way home from work. His lip was bleeding, his chest felt like it was going to cave in, and his breath came out in rattled wheezes. The banging on his door was accompanied with angry shouting. His back was to the door, barring it shut, but for how long he didn't know. How long would the lock hold?

"_Queer_!"

"_Open the fucking door_!"

His body slumped to the ground, back still to the door...and he broke down. Tears poured from his eyes like a faucet. His hands covered his face, hiding his pain, his despair, his emptiness. He wanted away from this place, this town. Why God...?

He loved this apartment.

He hadn't even lived here a _month_.

He wanted to live.

. . .

_A young man was found dead in room 3-3 of the Conrad Apartment Complex late Sunday evening. The man, a 22 year old tenant named Arthur Kirkland, is believed to have been assaulted while departing from his workplace. Witnesses claim to have seen a man matching his description running to the apartment building, as if in a panic. The body contained multiple stab wounds, as well as several broken bones. Investigations are still underway as to the motivation behind the brutal slaying and who was behind it._

_Tenants who fell into questioning claim that Kirkland may have been a homosexual, which would be a lead in the motovational factor of the case and also place this as a hate crime. When asked whether or not they heard any sort of commotion, all denied._

_Kirkland leaves behind a mother in London, England, who has been contacted of her son's passing._

. . .

His hands are always so warm. He'll mumble something about my cold, pulling our hands closer to his body.

I guess it's better this way.

If he can't see me...he can't hate me...he can't hurt me...

I can love him without fear.

. . .

I'm so tired of being alone...


End file.
